


The Red Knight of Kinloch

by psychicglitter



Series: Red Knight [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Red Lyrium, Sex, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicglitter/pseuds/psychicglitter
Summary: Olivia Lavellan didn't know what to make of the new templar who transferred to Kinloch Hold, Raleigh Samson. He wasn't handome, or kind, and he never smiled, but something about him drew her to him. Soon, they'd be joined together in the madness that is Red Lyrium, blood magic and demons, and love. After Samson frees her from Kinloch, they join Corypheus' army; Samson as his general, Olivia as Samson's advisor and lover. Olivia's life unravels when an accident forces her into becoming the Inquisitor, and their love, and his sanity, are pushed to the brink.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Raleigh Samson
Series: Red Knight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971481
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Samson didn’t want to attend a fucking Harrowing but there he was, getting fully armored up just in case a mage came back from the Fade with demon filling. He hadn’t seen that pretty blonde one since she’d revealed her great escape plans to him the day before - shit escape plan really, but he suspected she knew that. He’d done well avoiding talking to her or staring at her, but then she had walked over with her tits spilling out and making doe eyes at him and giggling. Samson had been warned about Kinloch Hold, where everyone was screwing each other, and that he should be careful.

What a bunch of idiots. If a woman wanted a tumble, Samson would give her one. Of course he was glad she was a Harrowed mage. He didn’t want to be deep in a girl just for her to abominate body parts all over the bed, or linen closet. How would he explain bits of mage scattered about the room to the Knight-Commander:

_‘Well, you see, ser, I bent her over so I could really get in there, you know. She thought I was trying to run her through and panicked …’_

He reached the Harrowing Chamber door and did a final check of his armor. He straightened the red sash around his waist, and made sure the steel shined in all the right places. He didn’t see the First Enchanter or the mage. Praying, most likely. Of course it would probably be just Samson’s luck that he would be put on decapitation duty for this damned thing. He cracked open the door and Knight-Commander Greagoir was deciding which one of the templars in the semicircle would strike the killing blow if the worst happened. Samson liked this part best. Not the murder of some poor fucker that came back wrong, but he could learn a lot about a man who volunteered to decapitate someone.

Greagoir fixed his eyes on Samson.

 _Andraste’s tits_.

“This is your first Harrowing here at Kinloch.” Greagoir looked him over from head to toe.

“It is.”

“He’ll do it,” Greagoir said, turning to the other templars gathered. He asked Samson, “Ever delivered a killing blow?”

“A few.”

Greagoir signalled the templars flanking the door. “Bring them in.”

Samson went to join his brothers around the bowl of blue lyrium. It was held by a heavy brass stand. He peered inside. The lyrium had a top layer that was a brighter blue, and glowed. It had tiny white foam bubbles that created thin wisps of smoke, and it was darker blue around the sides. That’s the part that hit his tongue first, and it was the sweetest, and warm. The foam itself was thick and creamy. It always settled on top, even if he shook it.

Of course the brass would warp its sweet and somewhat fruity flavor, and it would soon lose its bubbles, and the dark blue would start to look a bit green after about fifteen minutes. There was a lot of it in there, and there was dried up foam on the rim where it had been poured and frothed up.

On the floor were little blue spots, and more dried foam where it had spilled over the lip.

The slivers of smoke formed small clouds above the bowl, and if Samson tilted his head, or the light caught his armor just right, the steel reflected blue as the sky.

Greagoir was saying, “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she . . .”

The lyrium had lost its foam and left just the glow and dark blue rim, and the pretty blue clouds were dissipating. Most of its flavor would be lost, too.

“...struck down the Tevinter Imperium.”

The mage Raymer’s lips trembled and he kept glancing at the templars and started to cry.

“Will I die?” he asked, wiping snot on the sleeve of his robe.

First Enchanter Irving lay a hand on Raymer’s shoulder and gave him some last minute instructions about being smart and cunning. The boy closed his legs and whimpered. _Here it comes._ Sometimes it happened that a mage would lose control of their bladder. Samson couldn’t blame them. He even felt sorry for the mages who pissed the floor. He’d still swipe his head, of course, but it’d be a sad story to share with the others.

“No… no, please,” Raymer sniveled. He jumped away from the lyrium and shook his head. “I change my mind I - “

“You must be Harrowed, lad,” Irving said gently.

The terrified fuck put his hands out in front of him and stumbled back. “Tranquil,” he said, looking like a trapped rabbit. “What if you make me Tranquil - I choose it. Andraste help me I choose it.”

Greagoir raised his hand, then closed it into a fist, signaling the templars gathered the Harrowing was off. “Do you, Raymer, declare yourself to be one of the Tranquil?”

Raymer put his face into his hands and sobbed. “I do.”

********

It wasn’t that Olivia was waiting for Templar Samson, she just needed different books from his usual post in the library. She knew he was in the Harrowing Chamber, because Raymer was going through it today. He’d spent the past week bragging about Irving telling him how ready he was, and how brave. It had been over four hours since he’d waved at them all, smiling with his crooked teeth and shuffling out with his limp that he’d bounce on to make his legs seem the same length.

Olivia thought back to her own Harrowing and how uneventful it had been. She fought with a demon, told another to bugger off when they pretended to be her dead mother, then she was out. She pulled down the volume of _Mortalitasi: Art of the Dead_ and headed back to her table and waited. Technically speaking it was a forbidden book, but the Harrowed mages Irving trusted most were granted a more relaxed selection to expand their education. It had taken Olivia months to get ‘the nod’ from the old man.

She was just getting to the part about decorating skulls with purple silk ribbons and red stones when templars clamoured in and ordered them all to gather in the chapel. _Did_ _Raymer fail?_ She plucked her book to return it, but Samson’s gauntleted hand slammed it down. “Leave it.”

Olivia searched his eyes. “Is Raymer dead?”

“He may as well be.” He gently pushed her into the line of mages filing out.

It was very dark in the chapel with a few low burning red candles beneath Andraste’s serene statue. The black carpet with big yellow sunbursts on it looked especially pretty in the dark. Greagoir was there with Irving. The First Enchanter’s eyes were swollen, and he blew his nose on a handkerchief. To his left was Raymer, his forehead branded and his expression was blank. Passive. Ugly.

Olivia bit her lip. She looked sidelong where she knew Samson stood with the other mad dogs ready to gut every mage in the room on command. She caught his eye, but he quickly looked away.

Irving introduced Raymer as the newest Tranquil, and said that he was to be shown respect, and was still their friend. One of them. _No, he isn’t one of us, he’s all wrong now._ Then they all said verses from the Canticle of Trials. 

“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade. For there is no darkness, not death either …” the gathered mages mechanically intoned. She watched Raymer shuffle out of the chapel. He didn’t stop to wave. He didn’t grin. He didn’t bounce.

Olivia grabbed the back of the pew for balance, and bent over. She vomited lamb stew and purple cabbage onto a yellow sunburst.

“One of you get her out of here,” Greagoir said.

“Yes, ser,” Samson said, hooking his steel enclosed arm around Olivia’s waist and picking her up.

Samson carried her out into the corridor, past the storage for magical items, and cut through the library to one of the class rooms. He set her on her feet, then he shut the door.

She coughed and sputtered, swallowing bits of sour food.

“Raymer chose it,” he said.

“What choice?” She glared. “There is no choice at all. Do it or die? How is that a choice? We either risk possession or death. What do you risk, Templar?” She sneered. “You make me sick.” Olivia was surprised to see that he looked hurt at that, but it didn’t slow her down. “Murderers and dogs every single one of you,” she ground out, working to keep her voice down. A big vein in his neck throbbed and he flexed his hand. Olivia instinctively stepped back. “You disgust me, everything about -”

“Mind your tongue, mage or -”

“Or what?” She cackled. “You’ll drag me off to be branded?” Her anger surged, and she felt like she was floating. She found her courage and got in his face, matching his steady gaze with her own and said, “Is that the only threat you cowards have?”

Samson planted his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. “Like a fool I wanted to help you.”

“Then do something useful.”

“Like help you leave Kinloch?” He scoffed. “Grow up.”

“Yes, how very childish of me to want to feel grass on my bare feet, swim in the lake, lie in the shade all day and read,” she said bitterly. “How silly of me to wish for a kiss under the stars. Or look at the moons from the outside.” Her lips trembled as she fought for control over her emotions. “How completely infantile of me to want what every single other free person wants . . .” She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes.

He said nothing, but he no longer appeared angry.

“So you see, Templar Samson, there’s nothing you can do to help me.”

Samson took off his gauntlets and put them on the floor, then he unbuckled his chest armor and slid it off.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I can do one of these things.”

Olivia bit her lip.

“With me,” he said.

“I don’t know . . . ” She pulled the collar of her robe tighter.

He scowled. “I could have already done it. Come here.” He held out his hand.

She tentatively put her hand inside of his.

He led her to the window that opened just enough to allow in the light, and Olivia wasn’t sure how this was meant to help her, then Samson did something strange. He put his arm outside the small opening, leaned all the way back and stretched until Olivia heard a very loud click.

“What was that?” she asked.

Samson pushed the window and it became a door. “A moment of freedom.”

He grabbed her waist to steady her. He smelled like a wood type of soap, which she thought was funny, because she had imagined he would have stunk up all of Kinloch out of armor, but he smelled surprisingly good.

“There.” He kept a tight hold on her wrist and helped her climb up and get her footing. “Quickly. It takes me ten minutes to get that shit back on.”

Olivia stepped outside and looked up at the moons . . . 


	2. Chapter 2

Olivia stretched out her hand, seeking her lover’s warmth. He wore too much cologne, but it wasn’t unpleasant. She smiled against his back and planted a kiss on his shoulder. She rubbed his muscled arm, dragging her fingernails over his brawny back, leaving tiny bumps in their wake. She loved men. She loved the way they smelled, and their sweat during lovemaking, and the way they grunted and groaned. She loved the look of desire as they watched her undress.

“It’s not even sunrise,” he said, rolling over and pulling her against his massive chest. “You’re a greedy one.” They kissed, and he tasted like the whisky they’d shared the night before.

She giggled. “I have to leave.”

“I have a few more minutes.”

“No, the others will wake soon, and catching a mage in a templar’s bed . . .”

“You’re corrupting me, wench.” He squeezed her ass and grinned.

“Really,” she said, pushing him away, “I must go.”

He gave her a swat, then shrugged and turned away.

Olivia hopped off the bed and gathered her clothes from the floor. She tied back her hair, and buttoned her robe, even the top ones. She cracked open the door and peered out into the dark.

The corridor was empty, and her breath came out as little white clouds as she felt her way along the wall, following its sharp curve to the top of the stairs.

Samson looked up at her.

“Oh,” she said. He wore the linen shirt most templars wore beneath their armor, and leather trousers. He wasn’t wearing shoes, and his toes were curled over the step. Samson scooted over so that she could pass. She stopped and turned around. “You’re not going to ask what I’m doing up here?”

“Don’t give a fuck.”

Olivia tilted her head back and slowly exhaled. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Don’t give a fuck about that, either.”

“I see.”

She started down.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Is that something you give a fuck about?”

She waited a moment longer, but he didn’t say anything else.

********

The cloyingly sweet vanilla incense in the chapel made Olivia’s stomach turn over. It was near capacity, and several initiates were lighting every candle in the room. Light reflected off brass holders, and she squinted until her eyes adjusted. Jowan waved his arms trying to get her attention, so she went over and sat next to him.

He leaned close to her ear. “I’ve met someone.”

She scanned the room through the wall of smoke. “Which one.”

“She’s not a mage.”

Olivia’s mouth dropped open. “Are you insane? I...what are you thi -”

“Later,” he said, patting her leg, “In the library.”

Irving came in and took his place up front. Templars spilled in, positioning themselves in the corners. Two flanked the door.

“Let us all repeat the Chant of Light,” the Mother began.

Everyone stood, and said in unison, “Only the Word can dispel the darkness . . .” 

Olivia twisted the toe of her slipper into the yellow sunburst pattern on the carpet.

After the service, she headed towards the library to interrogate Jowan on whatever madness had claimed him, but she was stopped by a red-headed templar with bushy eyebrows and a scowl.

“Are you a healer?” she asked.

“I, well -”

“Can you heal or not?”

“I can.”

“Come with me, please,” she said, not waiting for Olivia to follow.

Along the way, she recruited several more mages until they were a party of six. They went around the back of the Tower, down into the kitchens where fresh bread cooled on racks, and Olivia could see the rose garden from the window. Beyond that was the training yard.

_I’m going outside!_

The templar slung open the door and held it so they could file out, then she turned to them and said, “There’s been an accident.” She looked at them one by one. “If you’re not a healer, speak now. This isn’t a stroll outdoors. Good. You may call me Narisa. Through here.”

Gravel crunched beneath her feet and bright green leaves brushed against her cheek, and the clear blue sky kissed the still waters of Lake Calenhad. The scent of roses clung to the air, and a honeybee settled on a petal before buzzing away. Growing closer to their destination, she heard the chorus of steel clashing. She lifted her chin, picking up the faint taste of rust and salt. _Someone has lost a lot of blood_.

Narisa pushed open a set of high oak doors, and the training yard sprawled before them. Olivia darted her eyes, looking for the injured.

Him,” Narisa said, pointing to a youth lying in the sand gulping for air like a fish, his body convulsing. One last gasp, and he stopped moving.

Olivia ran over and knelt beside him. Half his face was covered in blood, and he was missing several teeth. She clicked her tongue and sighed. She’d seen this kid only a few times, but he was very sweet.

Narisa directed the others to help. “We didn’t dare move him. It sometimes makes it worse, see. Will he live?” she asked Olivia.

Olivia placed her hands over the hole in his neck. It was a small miracle that he wasn’t dead. She carefully turned his head in her lap so she could examine the wound’s depth, but the more immediate concern was the amount of blood loss.

“Well, mage, what of it?”

“I’m sorry. I can't heal him, but there’s life in him yet. He needs the First Enchanter.” She jerked her head to her fellow mages. “There’s not enough of us out here.”

Narisa’s eyes welled up with tears.

“It has to be now,” Olivia said.

“Take him.” Narisa pointed to a knot of men.

“Yes, ser.” They hoisted him up on a plank.

“I’ll go with them to keep him stable.”

Narisa nodded.

Olivia placed her hand over his heart and started her incantation to keep his heart pumping, willing his blood to carry oxygen around his body, sending a piece of her own life force into him. Her head started to pound as if she’d had too many ales, and her mouth went dry. She clenched her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the pain, and began the lifesaving incantation all over again. She repeated this pattern until Irving and two Senior Enchanters took over, and carried the poor boy into a small study and closed the door.

She wiped her hands on her robe and leaned her head back against the wall.

“I thought we were all mads dogs,” Samson said.

“Narisa should’ve fetched the First Enchanter from the start.”

“Probably. But you saved the lad, did you not? If Irving gets him back on his feet, it’ll be because you gave a piece of yourself.”

 _How does he know the magic I used? Forbidden magic at that._ “Hopefully it was enough.”

He looked her over from head to toe. “You’re filthy.”

Olivia snorted. She noted the tips of her hair were caked with blood and mud. “My, my, what a keen observation, Ser Samson.” She closed her eyes and within seconds felt her body begin to slide.

Samson hooked his arm under her knees and around her back and picked her up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Olivia asked, trying to push him away.

“Where’s the washroom down here?”

Olivia turned her head away and clutched her robe tighter.

“Maker fucking sake.” He scoffed. “I’m not desperate for a woman that smells like horse shit.”

She glared. “It’s just off the main entrance.”

Samson took long strides, and they passed a room full of mages trying to set straw training dummies on fire. Black smoke billowed out and the Senior Enchanter was yelling.

“Do I really smell like shit?” Olivia asked.

“Yes. Literal shit. Horse shit, and -”

“I see.”

The right corner of his mouth tugged up. “The top of your head smells a bit soapy.”

She nibbled her lip and smiled.

Samson deposited her in front of the washroom. “Five minutes.”

“Such generosity,” she said. “I’m quite overcome.”

He glowered. “Four.”

“Ten.”

“Not one minute longer,” he said, kicking open the door.

After Olivia had cleaned herself, she wrung the dirt from her cotton chemise and put it on, then gathered her hair and tied it all up with a white ribbon. She plucked an ugly orange robe from the closet. Feeling not altogether happy with how she looked, Olivia opened the door.

“You had two minutes yet.”

She shrugged.

They walked together towards the library, and Olivia thought back to his reveal that he knew what magic she’d used on the injured templar. Yes, somehow they knew when a mage was using magic, and that made sense, but surely that didn’t know the type, unless it was something obvious like blood magic. Olivia wasn’t a blood mage, but she had dipped her fingertips in the forbidden art of necromancy.

She looked sidelong at Samson clanking along beside her and swallowed what felt like dust. Was that how he knew? Could they detect any use of non sanctioned magic? If so, why then did neither of the others with her mention it - certainly they should have, she mused.

She should be more careful, or perhaps consult with her demon.


	3. Chapter 3

Every time the young and besotted Templar, Calvin looked at Olivia, she’d toss him a smile. She hadn't set out to get him into her bed, but her demon had expectations, and Olivia needed answers.

He was missing two teeth after his accident in the training yard, but seemed eager to please, and full of energy. While Calvin recovered, the Knight-Commander had put him on watch between the library and apprentice quarters, which offered Olivia ample opportunities to brush by him here, and accidentally rub her breasts against him when grabbing a book she didn’t actually need.

Olivia rounded the corner and bumped into Calvin. A complete accident of course.

“So sorry,” she said. “Oh - it’s you.”

Calvin looked down at the floor and his brown bangs covered his right eye. “Did you need any help with anything today?”

Olivia smiled, leaned in and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “You wouldn’t happen to know where the second volume of  _ Mortalitasi: Stones of the Dead _ is, would you?”

He met her eyes and gasped. Olivia decided he was very handsome indeed, and would do nicely. She giggled. “There’s no harm in knowing a thing, is there?”

“Might be, I don’t know. Maker knows those books are put in the storage caves for a reason,” he said, shuffling his feet. “Is not something I can just tell you.”

He was also very dumb.

“I understand.” She touched his arm with her fingertips where the sleeve exposed his wrist. “Duty first. I admire that in a man.”

“You’re very kind, and many of the mages aren’t kind because they think I’ll hunt them.”

“They’re afraid of the big bad templar, it seems.” She winked.

Calvin blushed and smiled crookedly, exposing the gap where his teeth should have been.

“Don’t let it get to you,” she said, rubbing his skin with her thumb. “It’s the way of things to be frightened of those more powerful, yes?”

“You think I’m powerful?”

Olivia widened her eyes and dropped her mouth open. “Anyone would.”

He puffed out his chest. “Thank you, but I have to make ready. Sorry about the book, miss - I mean, mage.”

“Never mind it, I’m sure I’ll find something in the library to satisfy me.”

She watched him round the corner and disappear, then counted to ten. Olivia turned on her heels and headed for the storage room, where beyond that were the caves where the most dangerous, or forbidden items were stored either for special demonstration by the First Enchanter, or wrapped in crates destined for the White Spire.

Olivia touched the storage’s door and was surprised that she could dispel its magic so easily, but getting into the caves would be another matter. She wound her way around the room, allowing her hand to be her guide as she slid past wrapped bits and bobbles, until she reached the cave entrance.

Now the real test. She flattened her palm on the cold stone and closed her eyes. It would take an immense amount of mana to oh - the door rumbled aside. A lone brazier burned on the far wall, casting long shadows of statues and jagged crates like the mouth of a beast. She stepped back.  _ You have come too far _ , Olivia’s demon said from the depths of her consciousness.  _ What I seek lies at the center _ .

Olivia took a few calming breaths. Okay, now to find it among the crates stacked haphazardly on top of one another. Honestly, if these items were oh so precious and dangerous, why were they treated like trash. She grabbed a top crate and dragged it off. There inside a sack of moldy bits of junk was the item she needed. Olivia snaked her hand inside.

“What are you doing, mage?” Calvin asked.

Olivia smiled and faced him, keeping her hand around her little treasure. “Well,” she said, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, “there seems to be a mixup in the library and -”

“Did you think yourself clever?”

“Well . . .”

“Templars are trained to pick out manipulation by you freaks.” He sneered.

“I did think I was a little clever, yes.”

“Let’s find out just how clever you are, you stupid whore.”

“What fun,” she said, slinging her fist from the box, the purple collar flying from her grasp and wrapping around his scrawny neck.

Calvin fell to his knees, clawing at his neck, looking wildly around. His mouth stretched open to scream.

“No,” Olivia said.

Calvin gasped for air, opening and closing his mouth like a dying fish.

Olivia sauntered over and crouched in front of him. She curled a finger beneath his chin, tilting his head so that he met her eyes. “Now,” she said, rubbing her thumb over his thin lips, “you’re going to do something for me.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Good boy.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was the hum of the red lyrium that was all wrong, and he didn’t want to put this shit into his body, no matter what that old Warden said about how it would grant him abilities above that of ‘normal’ men. No doubt he’d enjoy breaking some stupid fuck like kindling, but even with the vial on the other side of the room, Samson could feel it was twisted, and ill. His gut told him that if he ingested that shit, he’d be bound to it - but he was already bound to it. Only it was blue and pumped into him by the Chantry.

He chose this life. He could choose another.

Samson snatched the glowing red liquid up and popped the cork.

Fuck it.

If he was going to be addicted to lyrium, he was going to drink the best shit available, and something that could allow him to bend the Knight-Commander like a fucking steel rod sounded good to Samson.

Samson took a gulp. He grimaced and held the vial away from his face. It was thicker than the blue, and bitter - it covered his muscles, bones, skin, blazed a trail on the way down, and clogged his nostrils with smoke. Good. Samson could do with that feeling again. Like when his first draught from the Chantry had claimed him. But the red stuff was more honest, and stronger, because Samson had made this bargain with his eyes wide open, and not as a naive youth taken advantage of by Holy Mothers, and commanders assuring him he was doing the Maker’s work - fuck His work.

Samson weighed it in his hand and twirled its ruby contents. He didn’t see even a hint of Andraste’s face on it. “Thank the Maker,” he muttered. He tipped the vial into his mouth and sucked down the rest.

He looked across the room at his polished templar armor. Dread hooked his chest and tugged.

An hour later, Templar Samson clamoured down the stairs and reported to his post in the library.

Already he felt his muscles tighter, coiled and ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Colors were brighter, and nearby whispers sounded like voices near his ear. There were pockets of mages arguing about this magical theory or that one. Someone set a book on fire. Samson scanned the room looking at blonde heads, but they didn’t have eyes that were blue like lyrium glittering in a silver chalice. Didn’t make his blood rush.

_Where the fuck is my mage?_

********

Templar Calvin spit on Olivia’s favorite blue robe.

Olivia threw the leash over a low wooden beam and tied it around an iron bar on her bedchamber window. She flipped open her white leather grimoire of uneven parchment where she’d scratched in spells with purple and red ink. 

“What are you doing?” His brown eyes widened, and he craned his head around. “I’m a templar, you stupid bitch,” he said, spittle dripping from his lips. “You can’t do this.”

“Technically true.” She hummed and burned ginger incense. She smudged each corner of the room.

“I’m going to brand you myself.” He snarled.

“Yes, yes,” she said, propping up her grimoire on a brass candle holder.

“Xanthe, ad adjuvandum me festina,” Olivia whispered to the Desire Demon. Her hair stood up and tendrils snaked towards the ceiling.

“Andraste,” Calvin shouted, “please help plea -”

Olivia lifted her hands. “Dies irae, dies illa Solvet Saeclum in favilla Teste Xanthe -”

The bar flew across the room and clattered to the floor..

Olivia reeled back. Calvin wrapped the leash around her neck.

“Xanthe...I call upon Xanthe to -” 

“Cry for your demon, bitch,” the filthy templar said, tightening the leather. He licked Olivia’s cheek with his sour tongue, and said into her ear, “I’m sending you to the Void, whore.”

Her spine cracked - _no, it’s the noose._ She fought to keep her toes on the cold stone, and managed to keep her left foot down by leaning over as far as she could. Olivia gurgled and blinked against the strain on her eye sockets. The bar was inches away, and she slid her toes along the stone and tried to grab it.

Calvin chuckled as he brought his knee up hard into her stomach.

"No,” she shouted, kicking him in the groin.

Grunting from the effort, Calvin hoisted her higher.

The door blanged open; the rope dropped and Olivia hit the floor. Rolling onto her belly, she coughed and gasped for air, and looked back over her shoulder.

Teeth bounced around her bedchamber like coins as Samson smashed Calvin’s face into the wall one - two - three - four - four, five times until blood coated the wood like a macabre painting. His face contorted with rage, and said something to Calvin but Olivia couldn’t make it out. He really did seem like a mad dog. Samson smashed Calvin’s face for a final time.

Breathing heavily, Samson dropped the filthy templar like a rock.

Olivia scrambled to her feet.

Samson stepped over Calvin. Olivia stumbled back, feeling for the wall behind her. He put his big warm hands around her neck.

She looked up. His hot breath tickled her face and smelled like blueberry, and something else Olivia didn’t recognize.

With one hand, he lifted her hair, and with the other he untied the knot and pulled the leather loose.

He rubbed his thumb over the red mark around her throat.

She held his stare. “I suppose you want to know what happened here.”

Samson shook his head and dropped his eyes to her lips. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Olivia lifted up on her toes, threw her arms around him, and kissed him.

He broke their kiss and stroked her cheek.

“It’s Olivia,” she said, going for one of the buckles on his armor. “My name is Olivia.”

Samson’s armor clanked to the floor and he carried Olivia to her bed and lay her down on the wool blanket. He removed his own linen shirt, then he climbed on top of her and pulled her robe off over her head. He grabbed her chemise and ripped it open and her body jerked with the force of it. He stared greedily at her naked body, as if she had been made just for him, and Olivia believed it, too. She felt dizzy and whimpered and reached for him. His tongue trailed from one breast to the other, teasing her and nuzzling underneath them, and Olivia knew that she would go mad if he didn’t put his cock into her soon. His skin was very hot, and Olivia pulled him in closer with diamond shaped legs and mumbled something, but she didn't know what and it didn’t matter. Olivia thought how wonderful it was to have been made for someone, and them for her. She stuck her nose in his dark brown hair that smelled like smoke and damp sweat. She kissed his chest. She kissed his chin. She kissed his cool lips. She rubbed her hands down his chiselled back and had never felt anything better in her life.

Samson was rock hard and thick, and it hurt, and Olivia was sure she’d never been stretched so far, or had a lover devour her with his lust so completely. She was sure beyond anything that every skill he had perfected on other women was for her alone, for this moment. He kept his hands on her hips, and they were big. She looked down and saw her skin very white against his sun-kissed body and smiled.

He thrusted. He groaned. He told her how good she felt and how long he’d wanted her and the room tipped and then righted itself.

She rolled Samson to his back and claimed her spot on top of him, moving her hips in rhythm with his. She panted, and moved deeper and faster. Olivia tilted her head back and there was poor Calvin dead on the floor. _I don’t give a fuck._ Olivia began to laugh and laugh and couldn’t stop laughing. Samson wound his fist in her hair and gently pulled her down onto his chest, thrusting into her and whispering into her ear that she was so beautiful. Olivia moaned just for him. She whimpered just for him.

He thrusted into her one last time and locked her hips into place.

Olivia didn’t want to get off of him now. Or ever. She wanted to stay like this on top of him with his sweat on her skin, and his fingers digging into her hips until her body refused to stay connected.

His chest heaved with every breath.

Olivia leaned in and kissed the hollow of his throat and felt it bob when he swallowed.

Her eyelids refused to stay open and she didn’t fight it. She lay flat on top of him and closed her eyes. The last thing Olivia felt was Samson shifting them both and pulling the blanket over her.

When she awoke hours later alone in the dark, she peered across the room and poor Calvin was gone. She slid off the bed, dragging her blanket over her shoulders. She lit a candle and studied the wall where Samson had mangled Calvin’s face for her.

She put her back against the cabinet that stored her robes and pushed with both feet. The brass handles rattled and the legs scraped along the floor, but it wasn’t very loud. She kept pushing until it covered the blood smear on the wall. Then she blew out the candle and climbed back into bed. She lay there making little breath clouds wondering how Samson got Calvin’s body out and what he did with it.


	5. Chapter 5

Olivia flatted her palm along the top of the window and felt around until she bumped into something sharp. She looped her finger and yanked. She heard the familiar clang, and just as she had watched Samson do, Olivia pulled open the window and attached the latch to a drapery knob. She swung her legs over, careful not to catch her cloak on splinters, and dropped into the moonless abyss.

Fog settled like wet velvet over the garden, and the air tasted sweet from the honeysuckle invading over the wall. Olivia ran across the yard, keeping her hem lifted. Leaves crackled under her feet and fear poked her in the chest, but she didn’t dare look back.

If she didn’t do it tonight, she’d lose her chance, and she needed him to be fresh.

Nestled among a dank fist of tall pines, was a mound of disturbed dirt, and below that was Templar Calvin. A kiss of wind tickled her hair against her cheek, then whistled up the funnel of trees. She slid the knife from her boot and pricked her finger. Olivia held it aloft the grave and recited her incantation. She waited.

The burial site trembled like a small earthquake and Calvin’s muffled voice called out for help.

“Silence,” Olivia said, using her hands like a shovel. “I command you to -”

“Help me,” he shouted.

“Shut up you idiot or I’ll leave you here.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Olivia pressed her nose into her arm. The last time she smelled something so bad was when that rat died near the ovens. She kept digging until his arm broke through, then she helped him climb out.

His face wasn’t as ghastly as she’d feared, and other than his bent nose and some teeth missing, he looked almost normal. Olivia realized Samson hadn’t beaten Calvin to death, he’d broken his neck. Calvin was completely naked. Olivia hadn’t considered that. She hadn’t planned for what would happen, or how to get him inside the Tower, or even if she wanted to. The only thing Olivia wanted to know is if she could resurrect him.

Calvin stood silently; obediently, and Olivia bit her lip and wondered what she should do with him. She could reverse it, but the thrill of having actually raised the dead tingled up her spine.

She undid the clasp that held her cloak together. “Put this on,” she said, throwing it over his shoulders.

He put the cloth into his mouth and started chewing.

She grabbed his hand. “Say nothing.”

“Nothing.”

Cleary death made people stupid, or maybe the beating Samson had given Calvin blended bits of his brain together.

They crept across the garden, and Olivia flattened Calvin’s back against the stone wall beneath the window. “Don’t move,” she said. She planted her boot on his thigh and her knee on his neck. She gripped the ledge and pulled herself up. The window was still open, and she sighed in relief and tipped herself into the room, landing on her belly. She took off her robe and put it back on inside out and buttoned it all the way up.

“What are you doing, mage?”

Olivia’s lungs closed and she slowly turned around.

“Night air,” she said, attempting a cheery smile. He cocked his swarthy head and came further into the room. He had shiny brown hair with blond stripes. Olivia gulped and it burned like acid. “I couldn’t sleep, you see, so I came in here to...enjoy the smell of the garden.” She gestured towards the open window.

The templar’s dark eyes flicked to the open window, then back to Olivia. His accent was Antivan and he was incredibly attractive.

Olivia spread her arms. “I’m not even dressed to run.” She sniffed the air and hoped the templar would think it was just something that died among the rose bushes.

He sauntered past her like an exotic animal hunting prey. He smelled like coconut and citrus, and it made Olivia’s blood rush. “How did you know how to open the window?” he asked.

“A complete accident, I assure you. I was cleaning it yesterday, see, and hooked the latch and . . .” She shrugged. He was very tall - much taller than Samson and very broad shouldered, and even in his armor she knew that he formed a V.

“Only an idiot would try a drop like that,” he said, peering out into the darkness.

Olivia hoped he didn’t look down and see Calvin, and there was less of a chance of that if he had something else to look at.

She undid the top buttons of her yellow robe and spread it apart so that when she bent over, her creamy breasts would push up and be exposed for him. She joined him at the window and giggled. Men always loved her giggle. “The Chantry doesn’t raise idiots.”

He grinned crookedly and his mouth was wide and very full. He stared at her breasts, and Olivia turned to look at him; her lips not more than an inch from his, and his pupils got bigger. She allowed her eyelids to droop and licked her lips. He didn’t move away. She kissed him and he kissed her back greedily.

The templar grabbed her robe and tugged it up. Olivia looked out of the window and guessed daybreak was about three hours away. She grabbed a buckle on his armor, and together they dropped pieces to the floor. She helped him take off his linen shirt and his leather trousers. Olivia bent over the windowsill, using his clothes to cushion herself. He slipped inside of her and grunted.

She looked over her shoulder; he was looking up at the ceiling. Olivia leaned her head over the sill and mouthed to Calvin, “Wear these.” She dropped the templar's shirt and trousers over the side. “Go to my room.” She pressed her finger to her lips, stopping Calvin when he opened his mouth to say what Olivia was sure would be _yes mistress._

The templar grunted louder and louder, squeezing Olivia’s ass. He slapped it once, then slowly circled his hips when he finished.

He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t help her, and he didn’t ask about his clothes. He pulled out, put his armor back on and left, leaving Olivia alone in the room with his muck between her legs. _Thank the Maker._ She adjusted her robe, buttoned up, and fled to her bedchamber.

Olivia slammed the door and fastened the lock, and there was Calvin standing in the middle of the room, still chewing the hem of the cloak. She loosened it from him and tried to smooth down his hair. It felt like straw from the stables, and it poked out all over the place, and it was impossible to fix. His unblinking eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and he smiled.

Guilt hooked her heart and pulled.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Are you cold?”

Calvin shook his head. Olivia lit the candle on the table next to her bed.

Someone banged on her door, and Olivia thought it must be Jowan. She opened her cabinet and stuffed Calvin inside among the rainbow of robes hanging from leather straps.

She plastered on a smile and opened the door.

“The fuck have you been?” Samson asked. He barreled past her and lifted his chin, sniffing like a hound at mushrooms. “What’s that smell?”

“Well,” Olivia said, opening the cabinet, “him?”

“You dug him up?” Samson looked away and grimaced. “Why?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You desecrated a fucking templar.”

She glared. “You’re the one that murdered him.”

Calvin suckled the hem of a blue robe.

“Sleep, Calvin,” she said, just to see if it would work. It did.

Samson kicked the cabinet closed. “But I didn’t desecrate the poor bastard.”

“It’s not like I -”

“What’s that?”  
  
Confused, Olivia pointed to the cabinet again.

“Not him,” Samson said, grabbing a handful of Olivia’s hair and pulling her against his chest. He growled and dipped his head to her ear. “Who was he?”

"No one. He was no one." Olivia closed her eyes as the exhaustion of the night seemed to collapse onto her bones, and her eyes felt heavy. He smelled like smoke and spicy cologne. She looped her arms around him and buried her face in him, letting his warmth blanket her and folded herself into him.

Samson undressed her and lay her on the bed, then he went to the wash basin and wet the cloth in the lavender water. He sat next to her and began wiping off the insides of her thighs. Olivia studied him, and he looked so serious and focused in the way he cleaned her. Detached, but tender, and he was sweet in his way, she supposed.

There was a thin pink vein that trailed along the side of his neck. He wasn’t handsome, but there was an intensity about him that she liked. A quiet suffering in his eyes that reeled her in.

“Was it...forced?” he asked.

Olivia popped up on her elbows. “No. I wanted him.” She traced the pink vein with her finger. “What is that?”

He grabbed her wrist, locking his haunted eyes with hers. “Nevermind it.”

Olivia tilted her head and sighed, because if he needed healing all he had to do was ask, but she knew he’d not accept it anyway even if she offered.

“Something I picked up during training.”

“Liar,” she said, poking his leg with her toes.

Samson smirked and threw the cloth across the room.

She climbed into his lap and cradled his stubbled face between her hands, tipping his head back and the vein turned very red, and she licked it, starting at the bottom. It branded her tongue, and began to pulsate.

He wrapped his big warm hand around her throat, but gently as though he held the stem of a delicate flower, and rubbed her chin with his thumb. “You belong to me,” he whispered.

It pierced her heart clean as a stiletto.

“I know.”


End file.
